Need to write more letters, keep communication with writing friends.. Sent one friend something, no reply.. then something to Dav, weeks ago, still nothing– I don’t blame them I blame me and my obsessiveness and the writing I can’t keep away from. And the words in their multifarious forms. I can’t expect others to have my speed and curiosity fanatic thunders, I can’t I realize. And when with coffee and I am now, I can never be caught. Seems lovely outside, Alice out for her 7 mile run. So thankful for her pushing me to join gym and not run at night.. the last 8-miler I did, last Saturday or one before, can’t remember in this fast typing speed, but too many close calls with cars, and I hate not being able to see where I’m stepping. If I were injured and couldn’t run for a long sprint of time, I’d be devastated; and as I said in yesterday’s pages I’m now able to swim, yoga, and other classes and exercise forms. Would love to wake early, really early, and go workout as so many do. And I would tomorrow if I didn’t have papers to grade.
Next letter I write.. not sure to who, but it’ll be by hand, no typing. Maybe that’s what I’ll work on today, upstairs at Palooza, to that espresso I tried the other day with Dwight– espresso, always and obviously reminding me of Paris, my city. Oh no, I haven’t forgotten my gardens and the tower and Montparnasse (sp?). And the train system. Je veux revenir en arrière, et je le ferai! [I want to go back, and I will!]
James Joyce said “the modern writer must be an adventurer above all, willing to take every risk, and be prepared to founder in his effort if need be. In other words we must write dangerously”. And that’s just what I’m in the mood to do today. And I don’t think I can write as dangerously on this device. So upstairs at Palooza, as to perpetuate the whole café feel, I’m hoping to just bring the Comp Book, scribble and let my thinking combat whatever has been bloody holding me back these days. But with the laptop, it’s more immediate, and I don’t have to look at the laptop as something that slows, for it doesn’t, at all. And the story behind Palooza demands me typing, capturing everything, and with this keyboard there’s none of those pencramps.
More coffee, need to wake, not sure why it takes so long this morning– I watch a cartoon with Jack and think of how old I’ve grown, 35, but writing faster than any teenager or college student or grad student, at least I’m faster than Mike Madigan in those days, stages. Keep taking notes, I tell myself– stay studious, and compile, put to standalone. Then print.
Coffee in kitchen, there for me, waking me up. Ugh, just thinking about the day I stress. But order myself to stop. IT’s not to be taken seriously. Any of IT.